Here, There and Everywhere: My Life Recording the Music of the Beatles

by Geoff Emerick

“Have you heard that new Tiny Tim record?” he asked. I hadn’t, but I was determined to present myself as being both knowledgeable and hip. “Yeah, they’re great,” I bluffed. Lennon burst out in derisive laughter: “They’re great? It’s just one bloke, don’t you know even that? Nobody’s really sure if it’s actually a guy or some drag queen.”

Looking back on it now, it’s funny how most people thought of John Lennon—the hook-nosed lead singer on that first song—as the leader of the Beatles. It might have been his band in the beginning, and he might have assumed the leadership role in their press conferences and public appearances, but throughout all the years I would work with them, it always seemed to me that Paul McCartney, the soft spoken bass player, was the real leader of the group, and that nothing got done unless he approved of it.

The problem was that you never knew exactly which John you’d encounter at any given moment, because his mood could change quite suddenly. Fortunately, it could change back just as quickly, so if you knew he was grumpy, the best course of action was to stay out of his way for a while, until he became approachable again.

In time, I began to realize that John’s mood changes seemed to always be preceded by long moments of silence. He’d get a dreamy, far-off look in his eyes and you’d think that he was pondering, ruminating.

But underneath all the bluff and bluster, John struck me as a very insecure person.

cans. No, I’d always viewed making records as painting pictures, with the sounds of musical instruments as my palette. I think of microphones as lenses and the different frequency areas seem like colors to me: high-pitched strings as a silver shimmer, mid-range brass as golden, the low tones of a bass as dark blue. That’s actually the way I hear things.

Not only was Alan Stagge clueless, he could be rude and arrogant. It was apparent within days that there was no rhyme or reason to most of his rulings; it was simply about his power. His attitude about everything was, if you don’t like it, leave.

Even if the producer wanted someone else, it didn’t matter: he was going to do the session whether they liked it or not.

Ken Scott told me afterward that his understanding was that the group deliberately wanted the White Album to be the anti-Pepper album, the complete opposite—even down to having a plain white sleeve instead of the ornate photograph that graced the cover of Pepper—but that was never discussed in the sessions I attended.

Another factor might well have been the simple but all too true adage: familiarity breeds contempt.